The Goblet of Fire as told by John Watson
by animegirl19791
Summary: With the Triwizard Tournament being hosted at Hogwarts, what promises to be an exciting year for John may just prove even more eventually than even he could hope for. With his relationship with Cedric finally starting to blossom, could he finally be getting over Sherlock? Or will his desperate feelings for the young genius win out? Rated M for later chapters. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

**Potterlock – The Goblet of Fire**

_**Author's Note:**__ Okay, so here lies Chapter One of my latest instalment. Sincerest apologies for the delay on this one – writer's block is a heartless bitch. This chapter is written in honour of TheNerds – who kick-started me into continuing it. Please review as all comments are appreciated greatly._

_Also, brief advertising moment. My housemate and good friend Cassiopiea86 has written more chapters of her FANTASTIC Loki fic, Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own. It doesn't get quite as much of the attention and love it deserves, so I would be eternally grateful if you would read it. You can find the first chapter in my Favourite Stories section. Seriously, it's amazing. She makes me jealous with her awesome skills (plus who doesn't want to read about Loki having might fine steamy sessions with a gorgeous werewolf?) XD._

_Love you all and happy reading! _

**CHAPTER ONE**

It was 4:25 on Monday morning. The watery yellow sunlight was just creeping its way over the tops of the trees in the distance, and John Watson was lying flat on his face in the damp grass.

"Oops," Greg Lestrade chuckled, using John as a leaning post to heave himself to his feet. "Sorry, mate."

"Don't mention it," John muttered, raising himself into a kneeling position and wiping the green stains from his hands. "We there?"

"Yep," Greg secured the backpack on his shoulders and grinned early round the deserted moorland around them.

"Just over there," Greg's father pointed to a point some fifteen feet away, where two strange-attired wizards were standing. Gideon Lestrade himself's clothing was rather suspicious, John thought. It was just as well they hadn't met any early-morning Muggle hikers on their way to the Portkey that had transported them here. Both he and Greg were wearing ordinary jeans, jumpers and trainers, but Mr. Lestrade was sporting a Hawaiian shirt in varying shades of purple and green, beige jodhpurs tucked into green wellington boots, a large frock coat and, to top it all off, a Stetson crammed onto his greying-brown hair. On the whole, John had almost swallowed his tonsils trying not to laugh when he'd met up with the two Lestrade's that morning. The fact that Mr. Lestrade normally looked so smart and intimidating in his wizard's robes did nothing to quell John's amusement.

John followed the two Lestrades over to the two waiting wizards, one of whom John noticed was standing by a large box full of used Portkeys. Mr. Lestrade added their punctured football to the pile and greeted one of the men (who was wearing a kilt paired with an orange poncho) with a friendly smile.

"How you doing, Basil?"

"Bloody knackered, Gideon," the wizard named Basil said with a pointed yawn. "Been here since twelve. Could do with a good dose of Firewhiskey, to tell the truth."

Mr. Lestrade smiled sympathetically and adjusted his hat. "Which field are we in?"

"Second," said Basil. "About a quarter of a mile that way. Campsite manager's Mr. Payne."

"Cheers," Mr. Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and started off across the moor. "Come on, boys."

John's stomach started to squirm in excitement as they made their way through the misty landscape. He'd been very pleasantly when he'd received the owl from Greg three days ago inviting him to accompany him and his father to Quidditch World Cup, since his older brother was no longer able to attend.

By the time they reached the campsite, John's feet were freezing and he was just about ready to collapse back into bed. It hadn't been a pleasant experience getting up at the crack of dawn to be catapulted through space and consequentially landed on by the much-bigger Greg. Still, that evening they'd be making their way through the wood to the pitch, so he wasn't complaining.

While Mr. Lestrade paid the Muggle watchman for their camping space, John squinted through the murky scenery to make out the first tents pitched some metres away. Most of them looked fairly normal, but he spotted one with a curling chimney and another with a large purple campfire outside. From the slightly dazed expression on Mr. Payne's face, John could tell he'd been placed under some kind of Memory Charm to prevent him from becoming too suspicious.

"We're just up there," Mr. Lestrade pointed to a spot by the copse of trees up the slope.

By the time they'd set up the tents (which, although Greg had told John would be magically enlarged on the inside, still surprised him), the mist was starting to fade and more campers were appearing on the site. Every now and again John saw people he knew from school – including one of his best friends, Cedric Diggory.

Cedric was walking alongside his father, and his handsome face broke into a wide smile when he caught sight of John running towards him.

"Hey!" John said, a little breathlessly.

"Hi," Cedric pulled him into a one-armed hug. "I was looking out for you. Go on, Dad, I'll be there in a sec."

Amos Diggory nodded to his son and continued up the hill towards a vacated spot marked with a named sign.

"Excited?" Cedric asked John, whose insides were fluttering like they always did in the older boy's company.

"Totally," John beamed. "Where are you sitting in the stadium?"

"Section H, seat 27," Cedric said. "You?"

"Section R," John was a little disappointed they wouldn't be sitting nearer each other, but that still didn't quell the elation at seeing the boy he'd harboured a secret crush for since the beginning of last year.

"Sherlock not with you, then?" Cedric asked, and although it might have been wishful thinking, John thought he sounded like he was making an effort to ask the question as casually as possible.

"Just Greg. Mycroft could've probably gotten us top-box seats but Sherlock turned him down."

"Still," Cedric said. "Least we can hang out before the game starts. I'd better go help Dad. See you later, John."

John watched Cedric's tall stature as he returned to his father, who was now assembling a two-man tent similar to the one the Lestrades had brought, and felt extremely glad he'd thought to style his hair before they'd left that morning. He also hoped Cedric hadn't noticed the large grass stains on his knees. It was unlikely Cedric would care, but John always liked to make a good impression.

Mr. Lestrade and Greg were sitting beside a small campfire when John returned, and Mr. Lestrade handed him a sandwich as he sat down beside them.

"I swear," he said, shaking his head at a tent some metres from theirs, whose inhabitants were roasting a large hunk of meat over a roaring blue fire, "there's hardly any point in enforcing anti-Muggle security measures with all this lot around."

"Well, there's only that one Muggle," Greg said, taking a large bite of bread, "and he didn't seem too bothered."

"That'll be the Memory Charm," Mr. Lestrade took a swig of pumpkin juice from the flask in his pack and offered a large box of biscuits to John.

John had to admit he was rather glad of Sherlock's absence, as it meant he could enjoy the match and Cedric's company without having to put up with the condescending looks and sarcastic comments his friend would have been certain to share. After a while, Cedric wandered over with a large kettle in one hand and asked John if he fancied getting some water from the tap across the field. Kettles in hand, they meandered over the grass towards the queue, chatting idly about their respective summers and trying to predict the outcome of the upcoming match.

"You've never seen Krum play, have you?" Cedric asked, waving to someone John recognised as a Hufflepuff seventh year.

"No. Is he good?"

"Brilliant," Cedric said fervently. "Youngest member of the team but definitely the best. Ireland have got a pretty decent line-up too, and with Ryan back in as Keeper, I reckon they'll stand a good chance of winning."

John lapped up every fact Cedric threw into the conversation, a little awkward at his own lack of knowledge regarded famous Quidditch team statistics, but eager to learn the most he could about the players before the match began. He'd never heard Cedric talk so enthusiastically about anything before, and loved the way his dark grey eyes lit up as he described each of the players' signature moves and which manoeuvres they might employ in the game.

The rest of the day was a mash-up of excitement and suspense, and by the time the gong sounded to signal the beginning of the game, John and Greg were wound up with anticipation and laden with souvenirs bought from the salesmen at lunchtime. Both boys were sporting green hats with dancing shamrocks, and Mr. Lestrade had pinned a luminous green rosette to the front of his robes (having discarded his jumbled Muggle getup). John also had a small moving figure of Aiden Lynch, the Irish Captain and Seeker, a badge depicting Viktor Krum's scowling face, and a programme bought for him by Cedric, who was clutching a large green flag and a pair of golden binoculars in his hand.

"C'mon!" Greg urged John as they all trouped towards the trees that separated the campsite from the pitch. Excitement bubbled in John's stomach like a lit firework, and he squeezed his figurine of Lynch so tightly it began to protest loudly in his pocket.

They parted ways from the Diggorys at the staircase that led to the upper levels of the stadium, Cedric giving John a wide grin and a wave as they were shoved down a different aisle by a group of rowdy wizards speaking loud Bulgarian.

They had just taken their seats in Section R, when a booming voice rose over the noise of the crowd: "Ladies and gentlemen. . . welcome!"

John could hardly see for the waves of red and green flags and dancing hats as the commentator announced first the teams' respective mascots, then the players themselves. Roars of appreciation erupted all around them, and John felt fairly certain his hearing would be significantly depleted the next day.

The game was incredible – there was no other word for it. John, Greg and even Mr. Lestrade screamed themselves hoarse every time Ireland scored, and Greg almost fell from his seat in shock as Lynch smashed into the ground after Krum's successful attempt at the Wronksi Feint. By the time the match came to its spectacular finale, John's hands were sore from clapping and both he and Greg were buzzing with energy as they left the stadium.

Mr. Lestrade instructed them both to get a good night's sleep, as he had arranged an early Portkey to take them home the next morning, but even he couldn't resist joining in as they went over the finer details of the game well into the small hours. He had just suggested for the fifth time that they try and get some sleep, when a loud bang from just outside the tent made all three of them jump.

"What the—?" Mr. Lestrade moved to the mouth of the tent and stuck his head through the flaps. Another deafening BANG seemed to make the whole canvas shake, and Mr. Lestrade withdrew his head and grabbed his wand from the table.

"Boys, put your coats on, now!"

Alarmed by the urgency in his voice and expression, Greg and John did as they were told without question, John's fingers tightening on his own wand tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

"Dad, what's going on?" Greg asked nervously as they followed Mr. Lestrade from the tent. People were running about, yelling, crying, trying to get away from some commotion at the centre of the campsite. John could just about make out a large, tight-knit group of people moving through the tents, blasting tents out of their way and laughing mercilessly.

"Get into the woods," Mr. Lestrade said, pointing to the trees up the hill. "Stay together – I'll come and find you later, okay?"

"But what—?"

"Do as I say," Mr. Lestrade said sternly, and joined a small group of wizards – all with their wands out – advancing on the mob.

"C'mon," Greg muttered, grabbing John's sleeve and leading them to the copse. The gaps between the trees were already littered with frightened people – mostly school-kids like themselves trying to avoid the riot. John caught sight of Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan talking in hushed voices next to a nearby tree, with a woman who looked like she could be Seamus's mother, but Greg pulled him past and deeper into the wood. They were close to the pitch now. John wondered momentarily how long the stadium would stand before the Ministry took it down. Or would they just leave it there for the next match?

"Here," Greg tugged John down onto the ground against the trunk of an old beech tree and took a couple of deep breaths. The noise and commotion sounded far away now, but John still felt nervous.

"Will your dad be okay?"

"Yeah, he'll be fine," Greg said, but he too looked worried. "Jesus. What's going on d'you reckon?"

"Your guess's as good as mine," John shrugged. "Do these things always end in riots?"

"Dunno," Greg shrugged.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, the occasional explosion from the campsite making them jump.

_Cedric must be out there somewhere_, John thought to himself. He was seventeen now – legally an adult by wizarding standards, perfectly liable to aid his father in subduing the mob, but John hoped he wasn't. Cedric was brilliant and all but John didn't like the idea of him facing off against full-grown wizards who were obviously dangerous.

After a while, it seemed like the riot was drawing to a close. They hadn't heard any explosions for a time and people were starting to return to the campsite.

"Should we go too?" John asked. Greg nodded and they rose to their feet.

"Let's go back to the tent," he said. "Slowly, though – we might see Dad on the way."

Making a mental note to omit this part of the night from the story he'd tell his parents upon his return home, John followed Greg through the trees back towards the open space. They could just make out the wreckage of a nearby tent, when someone close by screamed. Wheeling round, the boys saw a young girl in a flannel dressing-gown, clutching a teenage boy in striped pyjamas. Both of them were staring upwards through the canopy to the stars. John and Greg raised their own eyes to the heavens, and Greg gave a loud gasp. Floating some hundred feet above the ground was the enormous image of a ghostly skull, its serpentine tongue entwining itself round and round in slow circles.

The wood was alive with screams of horror now. John had no idea what the skull was supposed to symbolise, but he guessed it must have something to do with Lord Voldemort – he couldn't imagine anything else causing such a panic. He now wished Sherlock was with them. He might be sarcastic and condescending, but he knew how to keep his head in a crisis. He'd know exactly what they should do. As it was, they were stumbling over roots and fallen leaves in no particular direction at all.

They broke out from the cover of the trees and found themselves a short distance away from the tap Cedric and John had drawn water from less than twelve hours ago. This side of the field looked relatively deserted – just a few frightened people trying to patch their tents back together and extinguishing fires with water from their wands.

"The tent's somewhere over there," John said, pointing. "Come on."

They picked their way slowly through the wreckage. People seemed to be calming down a little bit, though the image of the sinister skull was still etched like a cloud on the dark sky. Then John heard his name being called. Turning round, he saw the slender figure of. . . Cedric! Running towards him, his wand in one hand, his clothes torn in places, but otherwise unharmed.

"John!" Cedric gasped, and drew John into a tight hug before he could say anything. "Oh, thank God, thank God, you're okay!"

John buried his face in Cedric's shirt. He smelt like sweat and smoke.

"I was so worried," Cedric said, his mouth against the top of John's head, his breath ruffling his hair. "Then the Mark appeared and. . ."

"I'm fine," John said. "I'm just glad you are."

Cedric pulled away and placed his hands either side of John's face, his dark eyes staring intently into John's, his mouth open. His fingers moved round to the back of John's head, and John was suddenly struck by how much closer he seemed, how if he just moved a little bit closer their lips would touch. . .

"Cedric!"

Cedric's hands let go of John as though burned by a hot wire. A figure in the distance was calling for him, motioning for him to return.

"My dad," Cedric said numbly. "I'd better go. Get back to your tent, John."

John stared after his older friend as he hastened back to his father. It wasn't until he felt Greg's hand on his shoulder that he finally looked away.

"Blimey, mate," Greg muttered. "For one minute there—"

"I know," John said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

For one incredible moment, he'd been certain Cedric Diggory had been about to kiss him.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John was just about ready to collapse as he opened his bedroom door and flung his rucksack on the floor. What. A. Night. He and the Lestrades had taken a Portkey back at four in the morning, after which John had been transported by side-along Apparition (an experience he _wasn't_ keen to repeat any time soon) by Mr. Lestrade back to his own house.

Still fully-dressed, John dropped down onto his bed and fell almost immediately asleep, despite his mind full to bursting point with the events of the night – the screams, running, Voldemort's Mark in the sky, and Cedric, his face moving closer to John's, his lips parted as though they would touch his. . .

It was almost eleven-thirty by the time John awoke again to the sound of his mother exclaiming her surprise at his return. He relayed the match to her and his father in as much detail as he could over breakfast, but decided they really didn't need to know about the riot, since his mother had been nervous enough to let him go as it was. He didn't want to prove her right. He was just explaining how Viktor Krum had fooled Lynch into losing the Snitch, when a soft flutter of wings announced the arrival of a splendid brown owl, which he recognised as Cedric's.

"Hello," John said, eyeing the owl – Juniper – a little nervously.

Juniper stuck out her leg for John to remove the large parchment letter attached to it, then flew up to rest atop the fridge. John opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

_John,_

_ I know it's been only a couple of hours since we last saw each other, but I wanted to make sure you were alright. Also, I feel I should explain myself. I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable when we met up again on the campsite. I wish I could say I don't know what came over me, but that would be a lie. I could say everything in this letter, but while I'm no Gryffindor, I don't like to think of myself as a coward. If there's any way we could meet up sometime soon for me to explain myself fully, I'd really appreciate it. Let me know ASAP._

_All the best,_

_Cedric_

John's fingers trembled slightly as he read the letter again. Then he remembered both his parents were looking at him and he took a (what he hoped was casual) bite of toast.

"It's from Cedric," he said, trying his best to keep the tremor out of his voice. "He wants to hang out sometime."

"Oh, lovely," his mother smiled. "You should invite him round sometime."

"Yeah," John smiled back, his mouth as dry as the parchment in his hands. "Well, gonna reply now."

He pushed the plate of unfinished toast away from him and hurried upstairs to his room. Hector hooted happily to see him and ruffled his feather.

"Code red, Hec," John muttered to his owl. "All systems go."

He sat down at his desk and pulled a fresh piece of parchment towards him, dipping his nearest quill in an ink bottle.

_Cedric,_

_ I'm doing well, thanks. Fell straight to sleep when I got back! Don't worry about what happened – I was so happy to see you were okay. I think meeting up is a great idea. Tomorrow a good idea? We can meet in the town near where I live – Hunters Meet, it's called, I've mentioned it before. We can meet outside the Library at 3:00? Let me know._

_John_

He took the letter back downstairs and attached it to Juniper's leg, taking her over to the window and letting her fly out before he had a chance to change his mind. As he watched her disappear into the clouds, he felt an anxious stirring in the pit of his stomach. Tomorrow he could either become the happiest teenage boy in Britain, or be facing the biggest let-down since the dawn of time.

God help him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_**This chapter has been torturing me for days. I don't know how you guys are feeling, but I'm growing increasingly impatient to write some actual proper Johnlock. BUT for the sake of the story I need to drag it out just a little longer, just to torment you and the characters a tad. Trust me, it'll be worth it in the end. Just a few more chapters and the real fun can begin!**_

_**I decided to include a moment in this chapter that might seem a little out of character for Sherlock – my reasoning being he's still just a boy and not as entirely in control of his emotions as he likes to think he is. All leading up to the glorious moment when the truth finally reveals itself to him.**_

_**Also brief note of thanks to a lovely guest reader called Kanade, who left me a rather glowing review that made me actually go "awwww!" aloud. You're a sweetheart and I love you. Many thanks also to all others who reviewed the last chapter. **_

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Once Juniper had flown out of sight, John collapsed back down onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, a thousand and one thoughts buzzing through his head. What would he do if Cedric _did_ like him? He doubted the news that Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts' golden boy, was in a relationship with John Watson – a Gryffindor four years his junior – would go unquestioned by the rest of the school. If it were true, would Cedric _want_ to go public with it, or would he request they keep it under wraps when people were around? John wondered if Cedric had confided in any of his friends about all this. Probably not. His parents, maybe?

John sighed deeply and ran his hands over his face, pressing down on his eyelids so white lights burst in front of his eyes. What were the chances, really? Cedric was popular, handsome, Quidditch Captain. John wasn't anyone special – just a nondescript Gryffindor who was friends with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock. What would he have to say about it? He wasn't exactly the first person John would run to for advice on this – that would be Molly or even Lestrade. Sherlock was positively _Vulcan_ with his logic and emotions.

"John?"

John sat up. He'd imagined it, surely. He'd been thinking about Sherlock and thought he'd heard his voice. There's no way Sherlock could be—

"John!"

The bedroom door flung open and a human tornado in a long dark coat came pelting through, following by John's bemused-looking mother. Sherlock's face was white, his curly hair un-brushed, as he stood staring at John like they'd not seen each other for years, a broomstick still clutched in one hand.

"Sherlock!" John leapt to his feet. "What're you doing here?"

"The World Cup. I heard. I thought maybe—"

"I'm fine," John said. "Look, not even a scratch."

Sherlock's hands flew out and gripped John almost painfully by the upper-arms.

"Ow. Sherlock, what—?"

Then – unbelievably, miraculously – Sherlock pulled John towards him and hugged him. _Really_ hugged him. John's arms were squashed at odd angles between their bodies, Sherlock's long-fingered hands digging into the back of his T-shirt. John eased his arms free and wrapped them around his friend's thin torso, breathing in his scent. He could see his mother smiling tenderly at the two boys before backing out of the room and closing the door.

"Sherlock," John said gently into his shirt – a purple affair whose buttons were digging into the side of his face. "It's okay."

"I was scared, John," Sherlock said in a tiny voice. "It was. . . I didn't. . ."

"It's okay," John repeated, reached up to stroke the back of Sherlock's curly head. He could feel his heart pounding at this new closeness, and hoped Sherlock didn't notice.

"Your heart's racing."

Of course he did.

"Yeah," he said with a breathless laugh. "You surprised me. How long did it take you to get here?"

"Two hours," Sherlock said, finally detaching himself from John, but still keeping his hands on his shoulders.

"But what if anyone saw you?"

"I used a Disillusionment charm," Sherlock said. "I would have asked Mycroft to Apparate me here but he's still working things out at the Ministry. I couldn't believe it – _Death Eaters_."

"What?"

"You-Know-Who's followers."

"Seriously? _That's_ who they were?"

"That's what Mycroft said. He said there's been a few casualties and I hadn't heard from you and. . ."

"I was going to write," John said. "But Cedric. . . there've been things going on."

Sherlock let go of John's shoulders like they'd scalded him. "Diggory?" he said sharply. "What things?"

John felt his face flush, not sure what to tell him. "Well, he wrote to me. Asked how I was, y'know?"

"And you wrote back?"

"Well, yeah."

"You wrote to him but not to me." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry," John said quickly, panicking a little. "It's just he asked and—"

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's desk, where Cedric's letter lay like the evidence of some ghastly crime. John saw his eyes flit over the words.

"What does he need to explain?" he asked. His voice was calm but his expression was cold.

John said. Now it came to it he wanted nothing less than to tell Sherlock about what had happened.

"He kissed you, didn't he?"

"How did—?"

"For God's sake, your pupils are the size of _saucers_, John," Sherlock snapped. "And if I were to do _this_," he grabbed John's hand and pressed two fingers hard against the inside of his wrist. "There – quickened pulse."

"Let go," John jerked his hand away. "No, he didn't kiss me. But he nearly did. And he wants to meet to talk about it."

"And you're going."

"Yes."

"He snaps his fingers and you go running." Sherlock said.

"He doesn't have to," John retorted. "I'd go anyway."

There was a brief silence, in which the two boys stared at each other with grim determination. Then Sherlock burst out, "Would you run to me?"

John blinked, startled by the question. "What?"

"If I snapped my fingers," he demonstrated with his left hand. "Would you come running to me?"

Despite his annoyance, John couldn't hold back a smile. "What d'you think I've been doing for the past three years?" he said, his voice softer now. He knew it wasn't in Sherlock's nature to admit to jealousy – it was an emotion he'd consider beneath his intellect – but this was close enough.

"But it's not the same with Diggory," Sherlock said. "You look at him differently. Why?"

"What?"

"What's so special about him? Why does he matter so much to you?"

"Sherlock, why're you being like this? You've never been this jealous of Molly or Greg."

"I'm _not_ jealous. Besides, they're not a threat."

"Oh?" John said, raising an eyebrow, and Sherlock looked like he was inwardly cursing himself. "You think Cedric's a threat? To what?"

Sherlock considered his answer for a very long time, his water-blue eyes never once leaving John's face. Finally, he conceded to: "You tell me."

John's head was in a total shambles. He knew what he _wanted_ to say, what he wanted to be true, but exactly how much truth there would be in it he didn't know. He tried to imagine what could be going on inside Sherlock's mind at that moment – it was like trying to remember something he'd never seen. He never imagined a friendship could turn into such hard work. He felt complete torn – on one hand he had good, kind, generous, open-hearted Cedric Diggory. One the other, brilliant, complicated, infuriating, amazing Sherlock bloody Holmes. But he couldn't go on like this. What was it that made a Gryffindor? Surely it was braver to face up to the consequences of his true feelings than go on hiding them like a frightened kid. He needed to be honest. Moreover, he _wanted_ to be. With Sherlock, Cedric, and himself.

"Sherlock," he said, taking an almost impossibly deep breath. "I don't know how you feel about me, but you've _got_ to know that I've liked you for a very long time. You're too smart _not_ too, for God's sake."

Sherlock didn't respond so he continued, somewhat breathlessly.

"Look, I really like Cedric too, but it's totally different. He's not like you, which is kind of a good and a bad thing, I guess. I honestly think he likes me too, and I'm going to be meet him because it hurts less to be with someone who feels the same that to be hopelessly chasing someone who never will. D'you understand?"

Sherlock seemed, for possibly the first time since John had met him, speechless. He was just staring, expressionless, his mouth partially open.

"I don't feel the same."

He's been expected it, but the offhand comment still struck a blow to John's gut. He forced himself to sound calm as he responded, "Yes, I know. That's the point. You don't feel that way about _anyone_. Which is why I'm going to Cedric."

"But why do you need him?"

"_Sherlock_," John's voice broke in exasperation. "I'm not like you – I'm _normal_. I need attention, I need someone who wants to touch me."

He felt his face flush beet red after the words slipped out, but Sherlock seemed not to have noticed the double-meaning in his phrasing.

"So you're choosing Diggory over me."

"Not as a friend," John said, taking a step towards his friend. "You're still my best friend."

"But you prefer his company to mine."

"It's not _like_ that." John was so frustrated he wanted to punch something. Moreover, Sherlock. "Just because I fancy Cedric doesn't mean I don't want to hang out with you anymore. Hell, I've been in love with you since—"

He almost bit his tongue in a last-second attempt to keep the words from escaping, but it was obviously too late. Sherlock blinked, the spell seeming to break on his still-processing mind. His haughty eyebrows knitted together.

"You're in love with me."

It was a statement, not an enquiry. Now it was John's turn to be speechless.

"John," Sherlock said. "Not that I'm not flattered. Well, not really. But you know I'm, well. . . married to my work. I can't afford any distractions."

"What 'work'?" John said, finding his tongue again at Sherlock's cold indifference. "You mean your 'deductions'. You know everyone thinks you're a freak, don't you?."

It was a low blow. Way lower than he'd meant. He just wanted Sherlock to know something of how it felt to have your feelings thrown in your face, however futile they might have been in the first place. So, he was a _distraction_, was he? It was the cold, hard proof that he'd needed to know Cedric was the right choice to follow. He clearly always had been.

Sherlock didn't look hurt, or even remotely concerned, at John's harsh comment.

"I need you to go now." John said blankly.

Sherlock didn't answer. He just took hold of the broomstick he'd propped against the wall walked from the room – no passing jibe, no backward glance, leaving John feeling about as empty he could have imagined he would were this day to come.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Sherlock waiting until he was right at the end of the Watsons' driveway before withdrawing his wand from the inside pocket of his jacket and performing the Disillusionment charm on himself, first checking that nobody was looking, and then straddling him broom, kicking himself into the air. There was a dull numbness gnawing inside his ribs that he couldn't explain. It had burst into life when John had used the word "freak". He supposed it was a natural reaction to hearing that word said to him again – this time from someone significantly more meaningful than the kids who used to yell it at him when he was small, back when magic would sometimes just escape from him without his control. He vividly remembered a time when he'd been ambushed by a group of older boys, when they saw him making the leaves fly in formation around his head. He'd been seven at the time, and rather small and skinny for his age, not having had his first growth spurt. They'd pulled his hair and given him Chinese burns, leaving him stinging and confused in their wake.

Then there was the peculiar ache that had somehow worked itself into a knot in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick and was finding it annoyingly hard to swallow. He didn't know what to do to make it stop. His body chose this moment to answer his question for him – the corners of his eyes began to prickle, and his vision suddenly became unfocused and distorted by the tears fighting for their release onto his cheeks. He furiously wiped them away with the back of his hand, yet they continued to resurface with a resilience they'd not shown for a long time. Not since the days when his feet had dragged him home, his clothes scuffed and dirty, his arms red and his lip often sporting a swelling.

Sherlock's mind presented him with an unexpected and entirely unwanted image of John meeting Diggory the next day. He envisioned Diggory confessing his feelings for John, and John looking so happy, the two of them holding hands as they moved to some secluded place to kiss. . .

Sherlock's stomach lurched and for a moment he wondered if he was going to be sick. He was losing altitude rather quickly, and just managed to touch the ground with his stumbling feet before staggering to a kneeling position and allowing the tears to come thick and fast, hot against his skin. It hurt so much inside, yet somehow felt good to let it out, like a poison that had long been disabling him, infecting him. Any person nearby who could have seen or heard him might have thought someone had broken his heart, even if he couldn't have guessed it himself.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John's heart was thudding as he stood outside the library, a polystyrene cup of tea in one hand, his eyes roaming up and down the street, crowded with late afternoon shoppers. He couldn't remember ever being so nervous in his life, and his palms were starting to sweat. His mind was racing with thought-out ideas and prepared speeches he'd concocted in the past twenty-four hours, but he knew that the minute he saw Cedric they'd go flying into the ether with no regard for his situation.

The clock on the town hall struck three, and John's heart gave an uncomfortable leap. Couldn't be too much longer – Cedric was rarely late for anything. He just wished he could fast-forward five hours when this would all be over, and he would either be jumping with jubilation or burying his head in a pit of sand somewhere.

It'd taken him almost three hours to get ready that morning. He'd wanted to look effortlessly attractive without actually appearing to be trying. In the end he'd gone for his least-faded pair of jeans and a dark blue T-shirt that hugged his torso just enough to show he'd lost the small amount of puppy-fat he'd sported for the last two years. His hair, just long enough to style, was spiked with the smallest amount of wax, and he'd sprayed himself with some Lynx he'd found in his parents' bathroom. A couple of girls his age had given him interested looks as they'd passed, so he was feeling more confident than he had when he'd left the house that morning.

"John."

The way John started, his feet actually leaving the ground, his cup of tea equally parting company with his hand, must have looked pretty comical, but Cedric had the decency not to laugh, although he couldn't suppress a smile.

"Hi."

"Hi." John inwardly winced at how weedy and nervous his voice sounded, but cleared his throat and carried on regardless. "D'you. . . um, fancy getting a drink. . . or something?"

"Sure," Cedric glanced at the spilled tea on the pavement at their feet. "I'll buy."

They walked down the street, John leading the way slightly towards his favourite coffee shop, in silence. John was aware at the not-so-subtle stares they were receiving from various girls they passed – mostly at Cedric, but also at John. He knew some of them from the Muggle school he'd attended before going to Hogwarts and from around town, and knew they were all thinking the same thing – _"What's a gorgeous guy like that doing with John Watson?"_

Pushing this rather insulting thought from his mind, John pushed the door of _The Coffee House_ open and stepped aside to let Cedric through first. They ordered two teas, and chose a table near the back beside the window. For a minute, they stirred their drinks and didn't look at each other. It was weird. Normally being around Cedric was so easy – more often than not easier than being with Sherlock— no, he wasn't going to think about him. This day was about Cedric. Cedric and him – no-one else. Certainly not Sherlock. No, stop thinking his name, stop—

"John?"

John started out of his reverie, glancing up to see Cedric was now looking at him, and was struck by how exceptionally handsome he was – more so possibly than Sh— Than You-Know-Who. Then John was struck by an uncontrollable desire to laugh, imagining Sherlock and Cedric in a beauty contest with Lord Voldemort. God, he was hysterical.

"John, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about for a long time," Cedric said quickly, sounding tense. John blinked, surprised. Cedric Diggory was _nervous_. His mouth was dry as he tried to swallow. "Y-yeah?"

Cedric nodded. "I've been talking about it a lot with Cho. . ."

"Cho Chang?" John remembered a pretty Asian girl from the year above him in Ravenclaw.

"Yeah, she's a mate," Cedric cleared his throat. "And, well, she basically said I need to be honest."

"Okay," John's head was starting to swim in anticipation.

"I. . ." he cleared his throat again, taking another cup of tea. "Well, the long and short of it is. . . I'm gay."

"Me too," John said, much too quickly. Cedric smiled fondly at him.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "That's kind of why I wanted to tell you." He slowly reached out across the table and placed his hand over John's – slightly trembling – fingers. "You're really cute, John."

He wanted to say thank you, but his voice seemed to have stuck to the back of his throat, allowing him to utter little else than, "Nnnmgh."

Cedric laughed, making John's stomach swoop. "So, um," he spluttered, forcing his vocal chords to co-operate, "have you told your parents?"

The smile faded a little from Cedric's face and he dropped his eyes to the table. "No," he admitted. "I think Mum would be okay with it but Dad. . . well, he's pretty. . . traditional. I think he's always hoped me and Cho would get together. We've been friends since we were kids. She's too much like a sister and, well. . ."

"A girl."

"Exactly," he looked up again. "I was going to tell them when. . . well, that's sort of the second thing I wanted to say." He leaned forward and gazed right into John's eyes, who felt his body temperature escalate rather alarmingly. "I really like you. God, that sounds childish, doesn't it?"

"No," John said, his voice now unfortunately high-pitched. "It's fine."

"Well," Cedric said. "I'm sure I can still put it a better way."

He numbly felt Cedric slowly weave his long fingers through his. The older boy's face was entirely serious as he stared across the table at him.

"I love you, John."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**__** This chapter is the last bit of filler before the real story kicks off – the next ones will be a lot longer. I continue to be humbled and delighted by the amount of wonderful feedback this series is still getting. I love you all, wherever you may be – even if you are slugs living at the bottom of the sea. ESPECIALLY if you are. Things are going to heat up after this so stick around – we've still got three and a half books to go! See you all next chapter!**_

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO__

John's head was spinning. He couldn't believe it. He wasn't entirely sure he hadn't imagined the words Cedric had just said to him. All he could have hoped for was that Cedric liked him, even just the tiniest bit, in that way. And now here he was speaking the three words that almost every Hogwarts girl (and he was sure some of the other boys) would give their wands to hear him say to them. And he was saying them to _him_ – John Just-Your-Average-Gryffindor Watson. He felt like he was going to laugh and cry and explode and be sick all at once. And the fact that Cedric – _Cedric_ – was looking at him with such nervous anticipation, as if he thought there might be a chance John would reject him. It was so bizarre that John had to resist dousing himself in boiling tea just to check it wasn't a dream.

But how to answer?

It seemed like a stupid, ridiculous question to be asking himself in light of the situation. Seriously, he was having to _ think_ about this?! He'd never said "I love you" to anyone before. Romantically, at any rate. It should have been a no-brainer – he would respond in kind to Cedric's confession and they would go on to kiss and start a relationship. Right? But. . . There it was. Sherlock's face rising to the surface of his mind. His stupid, smug, self-absorbed, sodding perfect face. It felt. . . wrong, somehow, to say those words to anyone else other than him. But why? Sherlock was the last person on Earth who would respond gladly to those words, or to say them himself. John really liked Cedric, and fancied the pants off him, but did he _love_ him? Actually, genuinely love him? It seemed like such a big word now, and he was mentally kicking himself for even _having_ this internal debate? What was the matter with him? This was all Sherlock's fault, for swanning into John's life three years ago, dropping books on his head and dislodging everything John had once thought logical. The logical thing would be to fall for someone normal – someone to whom intellect and rationality _weren't_ the final words in life, the only things worth functioning for. The fucking logical thing would be to say yes to Cedric right now. Cedric, who even now was starting to look like he was regretting his words as John's silence trailed on. _For God's sake, SAY SOMETHING!_ John's mind bellowed at him from all corners of his head.

"Are you sure?"

In an ideal universe, they weren't the three words he would have said, nor were they the words Cedric would have undoubtedly have wanted to hear, but at least they were words at all. Cedric sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was lighter than Sherlock's – the sun from the window behind him bringing out mahogany highlights. Apart from this, the two boys did share some physical attributes – pale skin, straight nose, strong jaw, long, clever fingers. However, Cedric's eyes were softer, his full lips more likely to be found smiling, his body broader and more muscular. Jesus, John was turning himself on.

"John," Cedric said. "I think about you pretty much all the time. My heart goes crazy whenever you're around. God, sometimes when you smile I think it's going to _explode_. You're the most adorable person I've ever met, you're just so cute. You don't treat me like I'm some kind of untouchable celebrity, and I can actually be myself around you. I don't feel like I have to impress you. I've even started dreaming about you sometimes," he smiled a little guiltily. "So, yeah – I'm sure."

John jumped at the sound of enthusiastic applause from the table next to them, where two girls older than Cedric were grinning at him – one tall and freckled with short, dark red hair, the other shorter, with brown curls and glasses.

"Sorry," the tall one said, ruefully ceasing her clapping.

"Good speech," the other added to Cedric.

"Thanks," he said with a slightly embarrassed grin. The girls gave John encouraging smiles and returned to their own conversation.

"Well?" Cedric said, turning back to look at John. "Have I just made a total arse of myself?"

He said it in a light-hearted tone, but John thought he still looked nervous. He felt a rush of affection for the older boy. He might not be sure if he was in love with Cedric, but he knew for certain that he meant a great deal to him, and he knew that he would have to be some kind of lunatic to turn this kind of offer down. Cedric was good and kind and handsome – everything John could ever hope for in a boyfriend. Putting aside his old affections for Sherlock, how was he so convinced that he _didn't_ love Cedric? It might not have been the burning ache of longing he'd felt for Sherlock, but perhaps that wasn't what he needed right now. What he felt for Cedric was warmer, softer, and actually made him feel good about himself. Cedric was right – he didn't have to be anyone else but him. He didn't have to worry that what he was saying was stupid or would warrant an eye-roll or sarcastic comment. So he gripped Cedric's hand and smiled. He saw Cedric visibly catch his breath, and that was enough to cement his decision.

"No, you haven't," he said. "I love you too, Ced."

There was a small exclamation of emotional delight from the next table. The redhead and brunette had their fingers pressed to their mouths, trying to pretend they hadn't been eavesdropping, but casting an excited glance over at Cedric all the same. John didn't mind – the only thing that mattered was the look of unsuppressed happiness that had filled Cedric's face, illuminating his handsomeness like a sunbeam.

It was nearing dusk as John and Cedric approached the end of John's street. Cedric was going to Apparate back to his house, having passed his test that year, and had insisted on walking John home. This made John feel slightly like a teenage girl, but he wasn't complaining too loudly as Cedric had held his hand the whole way. After they left the coffee shop, they'd walked round the shops for a while, and spend quite a long time just walking round the park, talking. John had wanted to kiss him the moment they'd stepped out of the cafe, but since they were still surrounded by people, then later at the park by loads of children, they'd decided not to. John couldn't deny he was nervous as they approached the sign for Elmwood Avenue, as he knew the moment was sure to come soon. The neighbourhood's residence had mostly retreated back into their houses, aside from Mr. Everett at Number Six, who was still washing his car. The low sun cast a buttery glow over the roofs of the houses, reflecting off the cars parked along the street.

"Well," Cedric said, and all the moisture evaporated from John's mouth. "Guess I'll see you soon, then?"

"Yeah," he said, trying for a smile which felt a little quivery. "Definitely."

Cedric raised a hand and gently cupped the back of his head, and John felt a ripple of thrill run down his spine. This could only be it. He numbly felt Cedric's other hand move to rest at the small of his back, their torso's touching, as he slowly lowered his head finally pressing his mouth to John's. John felt his whole brain mist over, the sensation liken to slipping into a warm bath on a cold day. John had never kissed anyone before – boy or girl – but when Cedric's lips moved against his he automatically respond in kind. He closed his eyes and slipped his arms around Cedric's waist, pulling himself closer as Cedric entwined his fingers in John's hair and deepened the kiss. He tasted like sweetened coffee.

"So," Cedric said, when they pulled apart, "are you going to tell your parents?"

"Don't think they'd be all that surprised," John said, his voice slightly shaky. His stomach felt like it was fizzing. "Think my mum's probably twigged. She guessed easily enough with my sister."

"Your sister's gay too?" Cedric raised his eyebrows. "Wow, that's almost overkill."

"Yeah," John laughed. "But I think I got the better deal."

Cedric smile broadened and he planted a kiss on John's forehead. "I'll tell mine tonight."

"Really?" John felt a little anxious. "Will your dad freak out?"

"Maybe," Cedric shrugged. "I don't care."

He still looked a little nervous so John stood on tiptoe – feeling a little stupid – and kissed him softly. "Send me an owl after," he said. "I'd say phone but you probably don't have one."

Cedric shook his head. "I'll send Juniper either tonight or tomorrow. I'd better go."

"Okay."

"Sod it, come here."

It was another ten minutes before John finally walked up his front path. He was feeling light-headed and dreamy, a ridiculous smiled slapped over his face, something Harriet didn't fail to notice as he entered the house, where she was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The new short haircut she'd adopted that summer made her look rather formidable, along with the fact she was a good five inches taller than he was.

"So," she said as John stepped out of his shoes and shrugged off his jacket. "How long have you been a homo, Merlin?"

John paused for a second and locked gaze with his older sister. It was the one thing they had in common – the exact same shade of dark green in their eyes – though now it seemed there was something else they shared.

"Not as long as you," he said. He was half expecting a clout, but instead she just folded her arms and smirked.

"You know about Clara?"

"No," John said. "But Sherlock figured it out last time he was here."

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Of course, Spock would guess."

"So who's Clara?"

"None of your business."

John pushed past her into the kitchen and started making himself a sandwich. He hadn't eaten earlier due to nerves and was starving.

"Must say," Harriet continued, "considering you're a mousy little squirt you've done pretty well."

"Yes, I have," John said irritably. "Cedric's one of the most popular guys at school."

"Oh, so he's one of you lot too?"

"Yep. He's seventeen."

"And he likes you? Paedo."

"Fuck off," John said loudly, just as his mother appeared at the French windows to the garden.

"John Hamish Watson!" she said sternly. "Do _not_ use that sort of language."

John grimaced and Harriet smirked. He stuck his middle finger at her as Mrs. Watson turned her back to put the kettle on.

"Anyway," she said, a little less severely. "Did you have a nice day?"

"I'll say," Harriet muttered.

"Yes," John said over her. "It was great."

"Who were you out with? Greg?"

"No, it was, um. . . another one of my friends."

John's stomach was starting to squirm. The moment was fast approaching. He just hoped his anticipations of his mother's reaction would be correct.

"Mum," he said, his throat feeling a bit too tight. "Can I talk to you about something?"

Hearing the sincerity in his voice, Mrs. Watson turned and folded her arms. "Of course, pet."

"Well," John swallowed. "It's kind of about Cedric. . . the guy I was seeing today."

A flash of realisation passed over his mother's face, which made him think his next sentence wouldn't come as that much of a surprise.

"He's, um, well. . . he's gay."

"Oh yes?"

"And, err. . . I guess. . . um. . ."

"You are too."

She said it calmly, matter-of-factly, like she was commenting on the weather. John's face flushed scarlet and he diverted his gaze to the kitchen countertop. There was a brief silence in which the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. John could sense Harriet's eager anticipation for their mother's reaction.

"Well," Mrs. Watson said, reaching for a mug from the cupboard above the kettle. "This Cedric. . . Is he a nice boy?"

Not quite the question he'd been expecting, but better than fire and brimstone.

"Um, yeah," he said. "He's amazing."

"How old is he?"

"Seventeen," John said, a little apprehensively.

Mrs. Watson looked surprised, but didn't seemed perturbed by this fact, thankfully seeming not to share Harriet's views on the subject.

"Is he a wizard too?"

John nodded. She looked relieved and smiled.

"Well, darling, I'm very happy for you."

"You are?" He didn't mean to sound quite so surprised.

"Of course, love," Mrs. Watson looked a little hurt. "You're my boy and I don't mind who you choose to go out with. And your dad would feel the same."

"Where is he?"

"In the shed," she gestured to the open garden doors. "Do you want me to get him?"

"Mum," Harriet interrupted. Her arms were tightly folded and she was looking slightly less smug than before, her eyes fixed on the floor by their mother's feet. "I'm gay too."

"Pardon?" Now Mrs. Watson _did_ look shocked. "Harry, are you serious?"

"Yes," she replied, a little petulantly.

"You're not just making fun of your brother?"

"No. I mean it. I've got a girlfriend. Her name's Clara." She still didn't look up.

Mrs. Watson sighed and walked across the room to her children. She put one arm around John's shoulders and gestured for Harriet to come closer, which she did – albeit a little begrudgingly. The three of them stood there for a while, Mrs. Watson's arms enclosed tightly around them.

"I miss something?" Mr. Watson's voice came from the French windows, where he was standing with a pair of muddy garden gloves in his hands.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Watson said. "Both our children are gay."

A pause.

"Blimey," Mr. Watson said. "Reckon it's in your genes or mine?"

"Hush," Mrs. Watson said fondly, planting a kiss on the top of John and Harriet's heads.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John woke up the next morning – his clock said eight-forty-six – to the sound of tapping on his bedroom window. Juniper was perched on the outside sill, a small parchment envelope held in her beak. He sleepily crossed the room and opened the window to let her in, upon which she dropped the envelope into his hands and flapped over to Hector's cage, who began clicking his beak excitedly at her appearance.

The address on the envelope was untidily written, not like Cedric's normal print, so John opened it with an air of trepidation, which turned to outright dismay as he read the first line of the letter.

_John,_

_ Not good news. Dad went completely ballistic. Of course this doesn't make any difference in how I feel about you, but it does mean that meeting up again is going to be difficult, as Dad has banned me from leaving the house for the rest of my mortal life. I know this completely sucks but I have to go with it for a while, just until he calms down a bit. Hope it went better with your parents._

_I love you._

_Cedric._

John was torn between throwing his chair out of the window or throwing himself out of the window. This was so _unfair_. The first romantic thing to ever happen to him and the universe had decided, "Nope! Not for you, Watson! Ha ha ha!". Cedric was right – it completely and _utterly_ sucked. He sat down heavily at his desk and wrote a response saying he was sorry his dad was being a prick (in slightly more eloquent terms), that his parents had been perfectly fine with it, that if Cedric needed somewhere to say at any point he could come to John's house, and that he loved him too.

Once he'd sent Juniper away again, new letter clutched in her beak and Hector hooting slightly mournfully after her, John went back to his bed and threw himself down onto it. He tucked his legs up to his chest and sighed deeply. He was come over with a sudden overwhelming desire to see Sherlock, but then remembered that he probably wasn't speaking to him now after the argument yesterday. He didn't think Greg would be the best confidant in a situation like this, since he'd probably do that awkward-guy-friend thing and end up saying something stupid, which left just one person he wanted to speak to.

After he'd finished sulking and gotten dressed, and found the piece of parchment in his desk with Molly's number on and sat down with the phone at the bottom of the stairs. She answered after three rings, and the moment she said the fated words "are you okay?", the floodgates were open and he was telling her everything that had happened between two days ago and that morning. She was delighted, of course, about Cedric revealing his feelings to John, but suitable distraught when he read out the letter he'd sent.

"_D'you reckon his dad will get over it?"_ she asked, as John morosely chewed a piece of toast his mother had brought him from the kitchen.

"Dunno," he mumbled. "He seemed okay at the World Cup. Must just be a twat in secret."

"_But when we go back to school it won't matter,"_ Molly said encouragingly. _"He won't be around to get in the way."_

"I dunno, Moll," John leaned his head against the wall. "I think him and Cedric are pretty close normally. Don't reckon he'll want to go against him too much. Which I can understand, I guess. It just sucks. Seriously."

"_It does,"_ Molly agreed, sighing down the line. _"Well, leave a couple days and see how it pans out. Could be he just needs to cool down a bit."_

"I hope so."

"_Have you heard from Sherlock?"_

"'Course not," John snorted. "Can you seriously imagine _him_ apologising first?"

"_Guess not,"_ she said. _"You're having a bit of a crap time of it, aren't you?"_

"You can say that again."

"_You're having a—"_

"Shut up, Moll."

"_Sorry."_

John moped for the rest of the day, despite his parents' attempts to cheer him up, and Harriet telling him to stop being so bloody po-faced or she'd sock him with a lamp. In the evening he locked himself in his room, idly flipping through his textbooks for the following year, trying to take his mind off the whole thing, not that it did the job all that well. Again, he found his thoughts drifting to Sherlock, and wondering what he was doing right now. Probably trying to memorise the entire text of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_ before they'd even set foot on the Hogwarts Express. What would happen if they still hadn't made up before school started? Would Sherlock go back to sitting at the Ravenclaw table at meals, and stop hanging out in the Gryffindor Common Room? Everyone else would probably twig someone had happened, and they'd definitely notice if Cedric stopped hanging around with him too, if his father forbade him from doing so. John spent an unpleasant few minutes imagining the taunts he'd probably have to endure from Malfoy, Moriarty, and the other Slytherin half-wits who liked to take the piss out of any Gryffindor slung their way. He was interrupted from these lovely thoughts by Hector making such a racket to get out of his cage that Harriet started banging on the wall from her room next door. John swung open the cage door open and Hector hopped out on the desk, giving his wings a good flap in John's face before sailing off into the darkening sky outside.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John didn't hear anything from Cedric for a good three days after that, when he was woken by the dulcet tones of "Oi, Merlin! Bird for you!" from Harriet downstairs. Yawning, he shuffled down the stairs, his slippers flapping with each step, and saw Juniper perched on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his father watching her with interest. He himself was a Muggle postman, and found the idea of owl delivery rather entertaining.

"The head office must be a bit of a mess," he chuckled as John took the letter from Juniper, who ruffled her feathers and accepting the piece of toast Mr. Watson held out to her. "I remember back when we lived in Surrey there was this bloke and his family trying to keep owls away from their house by blocking up every gap in the place. Think he was a bit barmy, to be honest. Had to deliver the normal post through one of the windows."

John helped himself to bowl of cornflakes and sat down to read the letter, his stomach doing little back-flips as he pulled open the rough wax seal on the back.

_John_, Cedric wrote, his writing much neater than last time.

_Dad's not quite so mad now, though he's still not all that pleased with the idea. He's still said I'm not allowed to see you for the rest of the holidays._

John's heart sank to his slippers.

_But__ that doesn't mean we can't still see each other at school. I'll come find you on the train once we leave and we can talk about it. I'm so sorry for all this nonsense. If it comes to it I'll move out and live in a box somewhere if he can't get over it by the end of the year._

_I know I said it last time but I still mean it – I love you. You're amazing and I hope you can forgive me for messing you about like this._

_Cedric xxx_

Three X's. John's faced flushed warm as he re-read the last line of the letter. He couldn't hear those words enough, even if it was proving a little more complicated than he'd been expecting. Well, if Cedric was willing to take the crap from his dad then John could just wait a bit for him. There was only just over a week left until they were due to return to Hogwarts, where they could see each other again every day if they wanted to. So perhaps things were on the up. He raised a hand to touch his mouth, remembering how it had felt to kiss Cedric – how warm and sweet he'd tasted.

That was something definitely worth waiting for.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I was originally going to write more of this chapter, but I think it's more appropriate where I've ended it, since it finishes on quite a bombshell. So we now trek into the realms of character development as Sherlock begins to finally realise some things about himself. I really hope you like this chapter as it took me ages and a LOT of re-writing. Let me know your thoughts! Love you all.**

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo OoOoOoOoOoO

There he was.

Sitting in their usual compartment, a book unopened in his lap, staring out of the window with his chin in his palm. John took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the handle of his trunk and walked past the glass door, hoping that by some kind of divine intervention that Sherlock wouldn't look up and see him as he passed. Luck seemed to be on his side , since Sherlock's eyes didn't so much as move from the spot on which they were fixed on the platform outside, and John proceeded along the aisle to an empty compartment. After stowing his luggage in the overhead compartment, he was joined a couple of minutes later by Molly, who gave him an understanding grimace as she sat down opposite him.

"No word yet?"

John shook his head and Molly sighed.

"You'd have thought he would've swallowed his pride by now."

John gave her an incredulous look. "Have you_ met_ the guy?"

"Yeah, I know," she said. "But if he was so desperate for Cedric not to steal you away surely he'd at least fight a little bit."

"Not really his style," John said. "Reckon he'd rather just wait 'til I go crawling back to him."

"He'd have to be pretty confident," Molly said.

"Well," John snorted. "If there's anything Sherlock Holmes has, it's confidence."

After the train set off from the station, they were joined for a short while by Greg - who was taller and more tan than last year, but it wasn't until the trolley lady had been and gone that there was a polite knock on the glass door and John looked up to see Cedric's face smiling at him.

John's heart leapt and Cedric pulled aside the door. "Hey," he said, then nodded greeting to Molly and Greg, who was looking a little intimidated by his sudden presence. "Can I have a word?"

"Sure," John said, following Cedric out of the compartment and down the aisle of the train. They ducked inside the alcove that separated the carriages, Cedric's hands immediately going to John's waist as he bent down to kiss him.

"I've missed you," he murmured, his lips roaming to the side of John's neck.

"Me too," John said, lifting a hand to rest on the back of Cedric's head.

It had been a difficult couple of weeks since they'd shared their first kiss on that sunlit street. Cedric's dad still hadn't cooled off completely about the whole situation, not allowing Cedric to visit John under any circumstances, but that hadn't stopped Cedric from sending John a letter at least every other day. They tried to keep their conversation fairly normal, but there was still that underlying question of what would happen when they did see each other again. The urgency with which Cedric's lips returned to John's clearly answered that particular query.

"Sorry it took me so long to come find you," Cedric said when they drew apart. He tapped the small badge emblazoned with the letter P on the front of his robes. "Prefect duties. Riveting stuff."

"That's okay," John said, linking his fingers through Cedric's and smiling up at him. "I knew you'd come eventually. Well, I hoped."

"I saw Sherlock," Cedric said, and John's stomach dropped a little. "He was sitting with a couple of second years in the first carriage looking about as friendly as the Bloody Baron."

"Oh," was all John could think of to say. "Well, he's still not talking to me."

"Have you tried talking to him?"

"No. Why should I?"

"Because," Cedric said, cupping John's chin with his fingers. "He's your friend. And you're his only one."

"But. . ." John pressed his lips together. "I can't."

"Why?"

Should he tell him? Was it wise to reveal to the boy who had told him he loved him that he'd been harbouring a desire for another guy for three years? John wasn't sure it would go down well, though it would probably make Cedric slightly less keen for John to make friends with Sherlock again. Maybe he should tell him, but not now.

"Doesn't matter," he said, pulling Cedric down by his tie for another kiss.

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John, Sherlock, and Cedric all lay awake that night.

John's head buzzing was with thoughts. Not just about Cedric and Sherlock, but also about Dumbledore's announcement at the feast earlier. Despite having absolutely no knowledge about previous years of the Triwizard Tournament, the idea of it was incredibly exciting. He wondered who would be selected as Hogwarts' champion, and what the contenders from the other schools would be like. He'd had no idea there were other wizarding schools beside Hogwarts, though it seemed foolish now he thought about it – there were probably hundreds of them in the varying countries. It was weird to think that other countries like Japan and Australia also had a secret community of wizards, not just Europe.

It had been a little strange not to have Sherlock sitting beside him at the feast that night. He'd sat at the Ravenclaw table, his back to the Gryffindors, not looking at anyone for the entire meal. He'd almost looked bored when Dumbledore had been making his announcements, but then John supposed he'd heard it all from Mycroft already. Either that or he just didn't care. Whichever it was, he certainly didn't look happy. He didn't smile or clap once when the new first-years were Sorted, and even glared at one who dared to sit too closely to him when she joined the table.

John's stomach gave an unpleasant squirm and turned over onto his side, curling his legs up. He didn't know how long this rift between them would last. He wasn't sure who should apologise first. Sherlock shouldn't have been so unpleasant upon discovering the truth about him and Cedric, but then John shouldn't have called him a freak. If he, John, tried to make the first move, it would be the perfect opportunity for Sherlock to shoot him down in flames as penance for insulting him. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn't _want_ to hang around with him anymore, since he now knew the truth. His insides twisted again and he buried his face in his pillow.

Two floors below, Sherlock was still in an armchair by the Common Room fire, his feet curled beneath him, a book balanced on a cushion by his elbow, though he hadn't looked at its pages in long while. It felt strange to be surrounded by the blue hangings and arched windows of Ravenclaw Tower after having spent almost the entirety of the last few years in the cosy Gryffindor Common Room. There was always a lot less chatter and more reading of books and poring over homework in Ravenclaw, which many would have thought more to Sherlock's taste than the friendly noise and commotion of the Gryffindors. Sherlock himself would have thought so once upon a time.

It had been much harder than he'd thought to see John walk past him without a second glance that morning on the train. He'd made sure he hadn't looked directly at his face, but he'd recognised his footsteps and gait instantly. He'd been half expecting – or hoping, he wasn't sure which – John would sit with him, regardless of what had happened. If he had, Sherlock might have considered apologising. It wasn't John's fault that he was attracted to him – he'd been informed by many people that he was physically appealing, and his former studies had shown that a person was seventy percent more likely to become attracted to those they associated with the most. If John was also attracted to Diggory then there was a chance that his feelings for Sherlock would eventually fade away.

And yet.

Sherlock laid a hand on the spot just below his diaphragm, where he could feel that unpleasant pain nagging at his insides. It had been happening more and more frequently in the past week or so, though he couldn't find any kind of medical explanation. There were no other symptoms to suggest digestion problems, and he hadn't eaten anything that might cause a stomach upset. The only possible conclusion he could draw from the situation was that it was some kind of emotional response. He'd felt it earlier on the train, then again in the Great Hall after he'd sat down at his House table, and over the noise of the student body had still managed to decipher the sound of John's laughter.

Pushing these thoughts out of his mind, he took a moment to wonder if Diggory would be putting his name in for the Triwizard Tournament. Probably. He doubted Hufflepuff's Golden Boy would miss a chance to show off, especially now that he had John's interest. It was the sort of thing he would have done back when he and John had first met, and he was so secretly desperate for John to be his friend, however indifferent he might have come across as. John was the first friend he'd ever had – the only person who'd been able to look past his slightly. . . odd attributes. Even Mycroft had difficulty with that sometimes. And now it had been spoiled by John's emotions, Sherlock's inability to keep his mouth shut, and Cedric bloody Diggory. Sherlock winced as, again, that pain made his stomach cramp up. In the past, John had often made references to a Muggle television show in which one of the characters had managed to train himself so as not to feel any emotions. Huh. What a useful talent that would be.

Down in the basement of the castle, Cedric was also out of bed. His fellow sixth-years were all asleep, but he had left his own bed empty to sit in one of the low, circular windows that lined the walls of the dormitory, enjoying a pleasant view of the surrounding fields which, in the day, would be covered in flowers, but were now bathed in moonlight. It had been a trying couple of weeks, what with his father flying off the handle and worrying that he had managed to ruin John and Sherlock's friendship for good. While Sherlock's obvious jealousy had certainly been annoying at times, he was John's best friend and anyone could see how close he and John were. While it was something of a miracle in Cedric's eyes that Sherlock had managed to score such a good, loyal friend as John, Sherlock was kind of a good influence on John as well. For one thing, their arguments had taught John to be more self-assertive and not so eager to just cave in to Sherlock's fluctuating mood swings.

Cedric sighed and leaned his head against the side of the window pane as thoughts of John crowded his mind. Suffice to say, he would have been disbelieving to say the least if someone had told him back when they'd first met that he'd grow to care about John more than anyone else he knew. Yet, here he was, fighting an ongoing battle with his own father for his right to allow John into his life. Then there was the Tournament. . . Cedric knew that, now he was of age, his father would expect him to put forward his name as a candidate for Hogwarts champion. Cedric loved his father – he was a good man at his core – but he often wished he didn't expect so much of him. It wasn't enough to have been made Prefect and Captain of the House team – there was always more he could do to bring pride to his family's name, to earn his father's love in return. He wondered if his father would be so proud of him if he wasn't such a high achiever – if he was just an average student with average looks and an average chance in life. But he wasn't. He was Cedric Diggory – "Hufflepuff's Golden Boy". God, he hated that nickname. It wasn't enough for those who liked him to set such high standards by his reputation, but that even the name given to him by those who _didn't_ like him made him out to be some kind of superhero.

But not John.

John had always treated him like he was a normal human being. Sure, he knew John admired him, but not in the holier-than-thou way everyone else did. The only other person who treated him like that was Cho, but they had clarified many years ago that they weren't meant to be together. Cedric suspected she'd known long before he had about his true sexual orientation. She knew him well enough. Next to John he supposed he was closer to her than anyone. She was the only other person he'd told about his feelings for John back when he'd first started to suspect himself of them. She'd just taken his hand and smiled. If only it was as easy for his father to be so understanding. He'd taken Cedric by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. So much of his father's reputation seemed to depend on how Cedric acted and the things he did. Suppose he _did_ enter the Tournament and ended up being eaten by a manticore or something – how would his father survive without such a prestigious son to uphold his name? God, he hated it. He sometimes even thought he hated his father, but then he would sling an arm over his shoulders and say something like, "That's my boy!" and he would always strive to do better. It was why he'd been so disappointed by his father's reaction to him being gay – he'd done so much for him, it almost felt like he deserved something in return, even if it was just acceptance for who he really was.

Well, he wasn't going to allow his father's narrow-mindedness to keep him and John apart. He loved the boy and, by Merlin, he was going to make the most of the time he could spend alone with him, even if it meant going behind his father's back to do so.

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School became a lot more interesting for John during the next couple of months, as he found himself spending every waking second looking forward to his next meeting with Cedric – some of which happened by chance, others were carefully planned between them. It felt like they were breaking some sort of law by just seeing each other, yet John couldn't deny it made the whole experiencing rather exciting. They often met in abandoned corridors after dinner, or in secluded corners of the school grounds at break and weekends. They'd even spent a glorious Saturday traipsing round the countryside surrounding Hogsmeade, alone for a whole three hours. They didn't do anything more than kissing and sometimes a little light touching, though John was starting to have embarrassingly erotic dreams again, although they featured a substantially less amount of Sherlock than they once had.

Speaking of whom, he still had not spoken a single word to. Granted, Sherlock hadn't spoken to him either, but it was most bizarre to have himself treated like a total stranger by his former best friend, and likewise being expected to ignore Sherlock like he'd never set eyes on him before. The Slytherins were quick to notice this of course, asking John if he and "his boyfriend" had had a tiff over the summer, but he learned to ignore them, too. It wasn't the most pleasant of times he'd ever had, but it was numbed slightly by the promise of his and Cedric's next meeting, just around the corner.

It was the 30th of October, and – according to a bulletin posted in the Entrance Hall – the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be arriving at six o'clock that evening. The excitement was palpable as they returned their bags to their dormitories half an hour early and gathered in organised lines in front of the castle steps, the anticipation reaching a peak when Beauxbatons' giant horses-and-carriage and the ghostly Durmstrang ship revealed themselves in the chilly night. John joined in the intrigued chatter at the revelation that _Viktor Krum_ himself was one of the Durmstrang candidates, and even found himself admiring the prettiness of some of the Beauxbatons girls along with the rest of the Gryffindor boys – primarily a tall one with long, flowing silver hair, and another with an impish expression and dark hair styled up at the back of her head.

The Welcoming Feast was excellent. John and Molly enjoying sampling the foreign dishes that the house elves had prepared in honour of the new guests, though both turned their noses up at a platter of escargot that had been placed on the Gryffindor table a short way from where they were sitting. After Dumbledore had explained the rules of how the Goblet of Fire would be selecting the three champions from the respective schools, they were sent to bed chatting about who would try to enter and what the three tasks might be. Cedric caught up with John and Molly as they passed into the Entrance Hall, giving John's hand a quick, unseen squeeze.

"Are you going to enter, Cedric?" Molly asked, her eyes wide in admiration as she gazed up at the older boy.

Cedric gave a non-committal shrug. "Maybe," he said.

He and John hung about by the staircase until the rest of the students had filtered out of sight, the foreign students making their way back outside to the Beauxbatons carriage and Durmstrang ship.

"Will you go in for it, though?" John asked, his fingers toying with the hem of Cedric's sleeve.

Cedric sighed, slipping a hand around John's waist. "Well, Dad will want me to," he said. "Suppose everyone will kind of expect it."

"Yeah," he nodded. "S'your own fault for always doing so well."

Cedric and a dry smile and kissed him.

The next evening, everyone was on tenterhooks to find out who the three champions were. Cedric, true to expectation, had entered his name, though he confessed to John that he was more than a little nervous about the whole thing. The first name to be drawn was Viktor Krum, to which nobody showed a great deal of surprise. The second was Fleur Delacour – the beautiful silver-haired Beauxbatons girl. The majority of the other Beauxbatons candidates looked thoroughly despondent about not being chosen, though John saw the dark-haired girl he'd noticed before the Welcoming Feast give Fleur a playful smile and a wink, to which Fleur blushed prettily.

_Interesting_, John thought.

The Goblet's flames glowed red for a third time. His insides gave a lurch as he turned to catch Cedric's eye. He looked perfectly at ease, though John could see the tension in his shoulders.

"The Hogwarts champion," Professor Dumbledore said loudly, "is Cedric Diggory."

The Hufflepuff table exploded into roars of delight, the ones closest to Cedric jostling to pat him on the back or shake his hand. Cedric smiled broadly, and headed up the aisle between the tables to where Dumbledore was waiting for him. As he passed, he gave a quick glance down at John, who smiled back as encouragingly as he could. Cedric touched the top of John's head for the briefest moment before following Krum and Fleur Delacour's steps into the chamber behind the teacher's table.

John didn't really listen to Dumbledore's following speech congratulating the champions. It might have seemed selfish, but a part of him and almost hoped that Cedric wouldn't have been chosen. Now that he would be in public view more than ever, not just within the school walls, but for anyone who read the Daily Prophet – he was sure the whole challenge would be thoroughly documented – the chances of him and John spending much time together alone would be very slim indeed. Then there were the challenges themselves. Dumbledore had said the chances of anybody dying this year had been eradicated from the equation, but John wasn't convinced. From the sound of it the tasks would be difficult and dangerous, and while he had no doubt in Cedric's abilities, the thought of having to watch him face anything that might cause him injury was hard to stomach.

He was distracted from these thoughts by the bright scarlet flames that had glowed from inside the Goblet once more, as Dumbledore caught the scrap of parchment that flew from its mouth into his hand.

"Harry Potter," he read.

Every eye – including John's – moved to stare at where Harry was sitting, looking about as dumbfounded and horrified as the situation called for. John's internal conflict seemed considerably less important now. Jesus. Was it him, or did _everything_ seem to happen to Harry? It was like he was the main character in some story whose author got a kick out of torturing their characters.

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It had been three weeks since the night the Goblet of Fire had selected the four Triwizard Champions, and tempers were running high within the walls of Hogwarts. Since John still hadn't made any attempt to talk to him, Sherlock had found himself with excess time to observe that which was happening around him, something he hadn't had since before he started at Hogwarts. It used to be a favourite pastime of his – sitting on a bench in the park or on the street, deducing facts about the people who passed by. Since there was so much excitement in the school at the moment, there was little need for him to strain his mental abilities to know what everyone was thinking. Not only was there the anticipation of the First Task in two days time, but also the rift that had formed between the majority of the school and Potter since he'd been named the second Hogwarts Champion. This antagonistic attitude mostly came from the Hufflepuffs, though not – to Sherlock's slight surprise – from Diggory. He seemed not to care that Potter was competing against him, and Sherlock even heard him reprimanding a couple of his underclassmen for shouting, "Potter stinks!" whenever Potter walked past. There was also the underlying thrill from most of the female students about the presence of Viktor Krum, which Sherlock found particularly irritating, especially when they came twittering into the Library whenever Krum was in there, and Sherlock was trying to read or doing homework. Sherlock longed to tell them they were wasting their time – Krum was obviously spending so much time in the Library in an attempt to engage Hermione Granger in conversation, a feat that was proving difficult as she was nearly always with Potter or Weasley's sister. However, his knowledge of this fact didn't stretch enough to him caring enough to share it with anyone else. Normally he would have told John, but. . .

Sherlock gave his head an annoyed shake and closed the book he had open on the table by the window, his usual haunt in the Library nowadays. He'd been trying to train himself not to think about John, since it made him angry and his stomach hurt. He stored the book in his bag and left the Library, glancing at Potter and Granger, who had a large stack of books piled on the table between them, all of which had titles related to dragons. So, the First Task was dragons, was it? Sherlock supposed Potter had been tipped off by the gamekeeper, who would have undoubtedly told him in an attempt to prepare him for the task. He didn't see any other reason why Potter would have his nose buried in _Men Who Love Dragons Too Much_.

The corridors were fairly empty as Sherlock made his way back to Ravenclaw Tower. It was the first properly bright day they'd had for days, and so almost everyone else was taking advantage of the sunlit grounds. Hopefully this meant that the Common Room would be pretty much deserted as well, and Sherlock could immerse himself in his books without distraction until the end of lunch. He headed off down a long corridor flanked by suits of armour, turning left at a portrait of a wizard in a large purple hat to use the secret passage that halved the journey to Ravenclaw Tower by a good ten minutes. As he pushed aside the painting to reveal the gap in the stone wall, the hated wizard said, "I wouldn't go this way if I—"

Too late, Sherlock saw the two people huddled just inside the passageway. One was pressed against the wall, the front of their robes hanging open, their head raised upwards to allow themselves to be passionately kissed by another taller figure, who had their hands pressed to the exposed skin under the smaller person's shirt. When they realised Sherlock's presence beside them, they turned and looked at him, both flushed in the face.

It was John and Diggory.

Sherlock's stomach gave an extremely uncomfortable twist, and for a moment he thought he was about to vomit. Both John and Diggory looked mortified, and John's face had gone a colour to perfectly match the lining of his Gryffindor robes. Of all the secret passageways in all the school, _why_ did they have to choose _this_ one in which to carry out their. . . activities? John seemed lost for words, but it was the look on Diggory's face that sent Sherlock's insides into a kicking rage. Smugness he could take, as with anger or dislike – but not pity. He was not so weak that he needed pity from a person like Cedric Diggory – the person who had stolen his best friend from him, blinded John with his good looks and so-called charm. Poor simple, trusting John – how had he ever stood a chance? He had allowed himself to become putty in Diggory's clever fingers. Sherlock could no more imagine bequeathing himself to someone so entirely than fly to the sun.

But then why. . .? Why. . .? What the—?

Sherlock raised a hand to his face, shocked to find thin tracks of wetness there. How had they escaped without him realising? His vision was becoming blurred, his heartbeat racing, the heat rising in his cheeks. He had to get out of there. He barely registered John calling his name as he blundered down the hallway, his senses leaving him to stumble blind through a door that led to where he neither knew or cared. He just needed to escape from it – the looks of sympathy he'd seen mirrored in John and Diggory's eyes, burning into him like lasers. He clutched a hand to his stomach, his insides writhing like angry snakes. God it hurt. It hurt so much he thought he must be sick, the tears still coming thick and fast, dripping from the end of his nose onto the hard stone floor. He'd never felt this wretched before. He ran his hands through his hair and wrenched at the curls, trying to dull the sickness with physical pain. He was so angry, so blindly, inexplicably full of a rage he'd never felt nor could begin to understand.

Sherlock sank to the floor, his back against the wood of the door behind him, his forehead pressed against his knees, his fingers closed over his ears. He wanted to block it out. He didn't know what to do. A burning desire scorched inside him, though what for he didn't know. For the first time in his life, he cursed his inability to distinguish human emotions – to define them. Perhaps if he knew how he could suppress the tidal wave of feelings that were coursing through his veins, held back by the dam of his intellect for so many years. The pain was building Sherlock screwed up his eyes and let out a throat-wrenching yell that exploded from him like a cannon blast, the nearby chairs and tables in the room crashing into the walls, splintering by the power of the magic that had burst unspoken from him.

It wasn't for a good few minutes that Sherlock even registered the banging against the other side of the door. His head was spinning, his ears full of a crackling buzz. Through what felt like a fog, he could hear John's urgent voice calling through the solid wood.

"Sherlock," he was saying. "Jesus, please, open the door!"

Sherlock didn't reply. He felt as though every ounce of his energy had been sucked out of him. There was only one thing he wanted – something he remembered from what felt like a long time ago. The only one thing he could remember feeling genuinely, solidly _good_. He dully registered rising to his feet and turning to twist the door handle. John's face was contorted with confusion and worry, his brow furrowed as he took in Sherlock's tousled hair and tear-streaked face.

It happened quite abruptly, almost as though it had been trapped beneath the scream Sherlock had not known he needed to release. He knew it as suddenly and surely as being struck by lightning. Looking at John Watson, Sherlock knew without doubt that he was the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes upon. He couldn't understand why he'd never seen it before. The way the colour of his eyes reflected an ocean following a storm, the golden tint of his eyelashes, the way his ash-brown hair curled slightly at his temples, his warm, sunny smile. Sherlock wanted nothing more at that moment to gaze at John's face until his vision gave out. His eyes moved over every inch, drinking him in hungrily as though he would never see him again.

"Sherlock," John said. That voice. How had he known recognised how sweet it was?

"I've missed you," Sherlock's own voice said without warning, even to himself, the words sounding foreign on his lips. "I'm so sorry."

First John looked shocked, then relieved, then Sherlock didn't know, the pain in his stomach turning to butterflies as John reached out and pulled into his arms. Sherlock buried his face in the smaller boy's shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in his scent. He wondered if John could feel his racing heart. His mind marvelled at the intensity of the pleasure he felt as John's fingers stroked his back. The warmth in his affection was almost palpable. How could he have missed it before?

"_I don't feel the same."_

Sherlock's whole body stiffened as the words he'd said to John all those weeks ago resurfaced in his mind. How could he have been so blind? John had said he'd been in love with him for a very long time. And now there was Diggory – Diggory who was open and honest and basically the blueprint of a "good guy". Everything Sherlock wasn't. Even if he confessed himself to John now, what chance would he have of competing against someone like that – especially now that they had reached a physical point in their secret relationship? Did John _love_ Diggory, the way he said he loved Sherlock? Could love for a person fade as quickly as it could develop?

All these questions to which the great Sherlock Holmes could not answer, or even hazard a guess.


End file.
